Poison
by Shiyaki
Summary: When the Company reaches Rivendell, the person greeting them isn't Lindir.


**Disclaimer: **I own neither Harry Potter nor The Hobbit and I don't earn any money with this story.

**Author's note**: Some time ago I was obsessed with The Hobbit and I decided to write this. I finally completed it, though I couldn't quite fit in everything I wanted, therefore there might be some… let's call them outtakes, in the future.

**Rating: T**

**Warning: **minor violence, mentions of dark themes

* * *

„Gandalf! I haven't seen you in ages!"

With a scowl on his face, Thorin turned towards the ivy-covered stone stairs to inspect the newcomer. Well, technically _they_ were the newcomers, but who cared? _He_ certainly didn't.

Having expected the disgustingly tall, lithe figure of a tree-hugger, he was a bit surprised to see who had come to greet them instead. It was a man – round ears and all – with comparatively short, messy hair and eyes the colour of perfectly cut emeralds. He was about half a head shorter than their wizard-y travelling companion and, disregarding the lack of beard, quite handsome. The king under the mountain to be wasn't a big fan of Men either, but he certainly preferred them to the pointy-eared bastards.

"Harry, my friend, how did life treat you?"

Without further ado, Gandalf pulled the man into a tight embrace. Thorin saw him raise his bushy eyebrows, however, when he finally stepped back.

"Oh and who is this lovely lady? It can't possibly be little Eirien?"

Peering at them from behind thebrunet's legs and clutching the man's tunic in a tiny fist stood a small girl with curious green eyes, raven-coloured hair and slightly pointed ears. Thorin was pretty sure he wasn't the only one staring. Among dwarrows, children were rare, girls especially so. They therefore had a soft spot for the little ones, even if they happened to be the offspring of another race.

Since she was obviously the child of a human and an elf – surprising in itself, considering the enormous difference in lifespan -, he couldn't even begin to guess her age, but she seemed to be even smaller than their hobbit and looked very young. It reminded Thorin of the time his sister-sons had been small and light enough to climb him like _he_ was a mountain.

The man standing next to the istari snorted and raised an eyebrow of his own.

"Lovely lady? It shows that you haven't been here for quite some time. Don't be deceived by her current shy demeanour, she can be a little hellion if she wants to be. Unfortunately, prankster blood runs in both her families. Especially Dan and Ro have made it their life's mission to corrupt her as much as possible." The man nevertheless smiled lovingly at the little girl and ran his fingers through her long, dark locks, before shifting his gaze back to Gandalf.

"You probably came to Imladris to talk to Elrond. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but he isn't here at the moment. He should be back soon enough, however. How about you introduce me to your company in the meanwhile, Gandalf?" The brunet was looking at them with a friendly and surprisingly open smile on his lips, though his eyes held the same curiosity that was mirrored in his daughter's eyes.

While the lack of elf pleased Thorin immensely, Gandalf looked very unhappy about the resident lord's absence. The old man heaved a deep, resigned sigh, before he, too, turned back to face the rest of his travelling companions. He offered them a slight uplift of his lips and started introducing them one by one. Most of their names were met with polite nods or, in the case of Thorin and his sister-sons, an additional slightly raised eyebrow. What really seemed to attract the brunet's attention, however, was their burglar's name. For a long moment the man stared at the little hobbit – who fidgeted under the penetrating gaze -, before he turned towards the istari and tilted his head questioningly to the side. Gandalf apparently understood the unasked inquiry for he nodded and muttered something about "...his mother's blood".

The girl, obviously feeling fed up with being shy and the long, boring greetings, dared to venture out from behind her father's legs and ran up to them. She stopped in front of Dwalin - of all people - and didn't show an ounce of fear, while she first inspected his friend and then the war hammer in his hands. The girl opened her mouth to speak, her little hand already reaching out to the weapon, when she suddenly stilled. Her gaze had shifted to something just above Thorin's shoulder, which, apparently, had caught her attention.

"Ohhhh, can I touch it? Pwetty please?"

Up close her eyes looked unbelievably big and Thorin was certain she had all the elves in Rivendell wrapped around her little fingers. And... possibly some of his dwarrow companions, as well. He was pretty sure he heard some cooing from Dori's general direction.

"What?"

"Your sword!" Not discouraged by his gruff tone, she pointed excitedly at the spot she had been looking at and where, he realised, the hilt of the elvish blade from the troll hole had to be visible.

"It's almost as pwetty as daddy's, but he never lets me touch it, 'cus of the balisk drool!" Her pout was a force to be reckoned with as well, Thorin noticed idly. He also had no idea what she was talking about. He had never heard of a balisk. He _did_ see the mentioned sword, though, when the man came closer and scooped his daughter up.

It was a thing of beauty and he had never seen anything quite like it. The sword had neither been forged by the hands of the elves – they only ever used metal and _this_ pommel was inset with several rubies – nor by men. The latter could never hope to craft anything this elaborate. Thorin would have bet on dwarvish craftsmanship, but the metal was unknown to him. It looked like silver, but not exactly.

He was almost intrigued enough to ask.

Well, perhaps after the dinner the man was offering them.

* * *

While Thorin was in no way a magic expert, he was quite capable of recognising someone using their powers, especially when it happened to be luminous, slightly translucent mist in the shape of a huge animal.

What he apparently _wasn't_ good at, was spotting magic users who didn't look just about ready to drop dead from old age like Tharkûn.

"You can come closer, you now? I don't bite."

Harry, son of whomever, didn't even look at him, while he spoke. He just kept petting the stag in front of his resting point, which happened to be on top of a balustrade.

Thorin scowled slightly in the face of such disrespect, but stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight nonetheless. He might as well ask about the sword now. It was of more interest to him than these flamboyant displays of magic and said magic's origins.

"May I inquire about your sword?" There really wasn't any reason to beat around the bush, was there?

The man raised an eyebrow - though, considering the obvious quirk of his lips, not in surprise.

"Eirien is obsessed with swords of all kinds, but, for some reason, especially with mine," Harry commented with a shake of his head and drew it out of its scabbard. The inscribed blade looked razor sharp and surprisingly new, like it had never seen battle at all, which Thorin couldn't help but point out a bit condescendingly.

Instead of taking offence, the man answered him with an amused grin on his lips:

"I'm not quite certain about the life spans of dwarrows, Master Oakenshield, but I'm pretty sure that this sword is a lot older than _you _and has seen more fights than you can imagine. It's been forged by one of the goblin kings some two-thousand years ago for an ancestor of mine." He idly tapped the inscription on the blade, which spelled the name 'Godric Gryffindor' in Westron. "The material used is goblin silver. It repels dirt and is said to be indestructible."

Thorin's expression couldn't have been more doubtful if he'd tried. Goblins? Really? And who was this Gryffindor bloke? He had never heard of him before.

"Goblins may be an annoyance, but a tribe of skilled blacksmiths they are _not_." Thorin might as well have called the man a liar to his face - or a loon.

Said man frowned in bemusement, but after several moments his face lit up and he nodded in understanding.

"You are thinking of the ugly, smelly creatures infesting the Misty Mountains. I'm not talking about those." The brunet sighed and shifted his gaze back to the stag, which Thorin had almost forgotten about to be honest. "I'm... _not_ originally from Middle Earth. My home world is filled with wizards and witches like me, but also magical creatures and beings. _Our_ goblins are about your height, but have long, pointy fingers and ears. A very clever bunch, though very nasty, if they want to be..." The man grimaced as if remembering a specific event and he _might_ have mumbled something about a cup and a dragon, though Thorin wasn't sure. "Goblin forged items are very sought after, especially weapons, due to the properties of goblin silver I mentioned. They can also absorb anything that would strengthen them, like basilisk venom."

Basilisk venom...

Well, the venom of the so-called King of Serpents _did_ sound more dangerous than _drool_. The story in itself still sounded far-fetched, however.

A world beyond Middle-Earth...

Thorin stepped closer to the balustrade. His fingers clenching around the stone beneath his hands, the king without a kingdom stared into the barely lit darkness around them.

"Why are you here then, so far from home?"

The man was silent for a long time and Thorin was just about ready to turn on his heels to angrily stride away, when the surprisingly soft voice reached him.

"We were at war and due to certain reasons I was in the thick of things. In the end, we won..." The _at_ _a much too high cost_ went unsaid, but was reflected by every tense muscle in the man's body and the dark expression on his face. "A supporter of the opposing fraction managed to hit me with a curse, which landed me in Middle Earth. For a long time, I searched for a way back, but if there _is_ one, I've never found it."

Uttering a deep sigh, the taller brunet slid from the balustrade and laid a hand on Thorin's shoulder.

"I wish you all the luck in reclaiming _your_ home. I'd offer to help you out, but after Eirien's birth I promised to myself to avoid such dangerous undertakings until she's grown up. I'm sorry."

The man squeezed his shoulder briefly, before turning around and slowly walking away.

Thorin didn't move for a long time afterwards, but the drive to see Erebor reclaimed had never burned quite as strong inside of him as in that moment.

* * *

After having suffered from gold lust – admittedly not the best moment of his life -, it was hard to be knowingly in close proximity to the One Ring. Thorin was still astonished that nobody had noticed Bilbo owning it in well-nigh half a century. Not even the king himself.

But now, lying on the stone dais in the middle of Thorin's biggest conference room, the ring was whispering sweet promises to him. Clenching his teeth, the brunet forced himself to pay attention to The Council. The representatives of dwarrows, men and elves were currently arguing about the fate of the trinket in front of them. Some wanted to use the ring's power, some wanted it destroyed and still others were staring transfixed at the golden band.

"Hey Gandalf, Sauron's essentially a wizard, right? And when he forged the ring, he poured a part of himself into it, rendering him practically immortal until the ring's been destroyed?"

Thorin saw Tharkûn raise a bushy eyebrow in the face of Harry's inquiry, but answered readily enough.

"Indeed, Sauron infused it with his power and he will only cease to exist, when the One Ring is no more."

Harry nodded silently, his gaze focused on the ring. Thorin idly wondered if it was promising a way for the man to return home. A tempting offer, which the brunet would probably never accept. Not anymore, at least.

If he hadn't paid attention, Thorin wouldn't have noticed the shift in the man's face. He had seen the same dark look in the man's emerald eyes once before, on a balcony in Rivendell. Had Harry become a slave of the ring's allure after all?

The king's concerns increased, when the brunet arose from his chair and stepped closer to the dais. Instead of reaching for the ring, however, he pulled his sword from its scabbard in a swift move and, ignoring Gandalf's loud protests, swung the blade down on the band. Having tried something similar long before they had summoned The Council, Thorin and everyone else in the know ducked, lest they were struck by the broken blade shards.

He was wholly unprepared for the loud screech piercing his ears and the black smoke stealing his vision.

It took some minutes to recuperate, but when Thorin finally opened his eyes, he was treated to a wholly unbelievable sight. Tharkûn had told him about the only way to destroy The One Ring, when he had arrived, but right there, on the dais, the golden band was split into two halves, like it had been a normal piece of jewellery.

"Wha- _How did you do it_?"

Gandalf had taken hold of Harry's shoulders and was shaking the smaller man – whose sword was still perfectly intact - urgently.

The brunet calmly dislodged the hard grip and re-sheathed his blade.

"Experience."

* * *

If you can't get enough of this universe, take a look at 'The Way is the Goal'. It'll be a collection of oneshots of what happened prior to and after 'Poison'.


End file.
